


Odin was Late

by ExquisitelyExplicit



Series: The Weak Minds of Grand Men [1]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Norse Religion & Lore, Original Work
Genre: Gen, I REGRET NOTHING, Jotunn, Jötnar, Loki Does What He Wants, Novel, The Weak Minds of Grand Men, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:36:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1418578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExquisitelyExplicit/pseuds/ExquisitelyExplicit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki has many dues to pay, and Odin is more than happy to think up ways for him to pay them.</p>
<p>Half of chapter one (Chains) of my most recent novel, <em>The Weak Minds of Grand Men</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Odin was Late

**Author's Note:**

> I love this novel. I really, really do.  
> And I'm not saying that just because I wrote it--I've written lots of novels, but this is my favorite one so far. It was hard work, but it was so much fun to write.  
> It was pretty different in that, although I created the universe and did my own work to melt the mythologies together, I had to do a lot of research to get everything as correct as possible.  
> Once I got to know them, however, it wasn't as hard as I might have feared to adapt my interpretations of Odin, Loki, Sif, etc...  
> (Fun fact: I took a DnD character test as Loki and he got Chaotic Evil. _Gods_ , he's so fucking fun to write.)
> 
> Things in parenthesis will be footnotes in the published novel. This is the reason I use so many parenthesis, btw. I wrote this for a good 4 1/2 to 5 months, parenthesisying it up. Now it's stuck in my syntax.

I spit a mouthful of blood onto the boy’s shiny brown boots and started to laugh; I couldn’t help myself. Someone yanked the metal chain that wrapped around my neck with a quick jerk and I choked.  
The boy looked down at me with the same expression I longed to show him, but it’s hard to seem haughty when you’re kneeling on the floor with bound hands and a chain around your throat.  
He grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed back. My hair fell away from my face as I looked up at him. I could feel blood trickling across my skin, from my temple and mouth, primarily, to drip down my neck.  
“Are you ready to talk now?”  
I accidentally swallowed blood as I smiled, but there was still plenty in my mouth, the cuts refusing to heal even as I attempted to channel my almost nonexistent energy reserves into their repair. But I didn’t aim for his boots this time.  
He let out a cry and slapped me across the face, moving quickly backward. I let my head hang forward, unmoving, staring at the floor to my left and breathed slowly.  
Magic is a funny thing, you know. Taking it for granted is one thing I’ve had the luxury of doing for all my life. Now that it’s gone, I’m _almost_ surprised ( _almost_ ) at how much I _miss_ it.  
My tongue felt heavy in my mouth, coated with sticky, cloying blood. I’ve never tasted that much iron before, nor have I again. It clung to my tongue, like sucking on old coins.  
I spit out another clot of blood. Some days just end up being worse than others.  
The boy laughed but he was most obviously perplexed beneath his façade. He pulled out a silken handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the blood and saliva on his cheek. I would have smiled, but at that point it hurt too much to move my lips—one of them was slit through from the slap and was still bleeding onto my face and chest.  
Whoever claimed there was a difference between Dark and Light elves was lying through their teeth when they said it. Their sadism just takes different forms, if you’re asking me, and I’ve never liked either kind. Of course, neither kind has never much liked _me_ , but that has little to do with my opinion of them.  
Ragnarök came and went, but here I am. The world ended three hundred years ago, but they still can’t seem to get over it. You might say, as immortals, that it doesn’t matter when our grudge matches take place, as we have all the time in the world.   
That, too, is a lie. I’ve died before, and so has my entire family. We were sent back to Asgard. (But that’s another story.) The elves, however, are not immortal. They long outlast Midgardians, or _humans_ , but die they do.  
Nor were they much pleased with our return. There are many reasons they claim for their particular displeasure, but we all know the truth. All they wanted from us was our death, so they, in a mad exercise in futility, could attempt to _claim_ Asgard’s throne and halls for themselves. ‘Tis my belief the only thing that undid them long enough for our return was the disheveled, dismantled state of my brother’s palace.  
As I spat another glob of blood at the boy, I realized that some of them could also be particularly germophobic. I’m not sure why it was so funny, but I laughed.  
He sneered at me and I sighed. The _things_ I do for my brother. I owed him, but I am _highly_ doubtful of the fact that I owed him that much. He never took my protests into account before dangling me out as bait, though.  
I cleared my throat and tried to pass the time. “See here, I’m sure in general you’re a fairly pleasant kid, and all, but I don’t much care what any of your superiors told you—this is going to get you no favors.”  
That seemed to offend him. “I’m not a kid! I’m a hundred years old!” (To you Midgardians, that’d be about eighteen.)  
“Is that supposed to impress me, boy? I’m nearly as old as all the realms.” _Oh gods, he’s a whiner_.   
The elf seemed as if he were trying to keep from stamping his foot in a tantrum, resorting to childish complaints. The fights these days, I swear. I’ve never been that much of a warrior, but honestly. The caliber of antagonist in day-to-day life seems to have sloped far downhill.  
Restlessly, I clattered the chains again. It was useless, just like the first twelve times. I wanted my magic so _badly_.  
“But you have no power, oh ancient lord,” he replied derisively.  
“I have plenty of _power_.” What I didn’t have was magic, nor the ability to use it. Semantics tend to work in my favor—it’s the only way that I’ve ever been lucky.  
And speaking of luck . . .  
Odin was late. I had been there for several hours, but he was just now banging on the door, attempting to break it in. A few of the excuses that he might attempt, or ones that were perhaps the truth, came to mind, but none of them made me particularly happy.  
One: They had gotten lost. Not likely.   
Two: The elves gave them _trouble_. More plausible. But it doubted that one even as it came to mind. Also, it didn’t make me feel all that comfortable in his abilities (to lie, that is). Even with one eye, he could kill off a pack of Elven guards with ease . . .  
Three: They didn’t start out as early as they had intended. (Read; as they _told_ me they would.) Most likely excuse, least likely to be said to me.  
Four: They didn’t start out as early as they had intended because _they got drunk_. Again. That one scared me, just slightly, and not because that would mean a group of drunken men were fighting for _my_ life. All right, I know that _none_ of them were fighting to save my life. But they were fighting for honor, so on my more self-satisfied days I could usually transfer over for my life. But this wasn’t one of them and the thought they would gladly let me die, just for _another_ , unnecessary, I might even add, reason to slaughter the Light elves was . . . unpleasant.  
There was another crash and I tried not to roll my eyes—they were rescuing me, after all. But _honestly_. The way the Aesir act sometimes is frankly _barbaric_. I can’t say that I’ve been disappointed to be a Jötnar. At least I have _some_ different blood in me than the lot of them . . .  
The elf boy stared at the door as it bulged beneath the gods’ weight. They were probably attacking it with axes and swords and, if Thor were there, a hammer. (I doubted he was there. There was a probability that he disliked me enough even to avoid a battle if I were the intended prize at the end. Not that _anyone_ would give me up as a prize if they were in their right mind, but that’s Thor for you . . . I think all the electricity in the lighting has addled his brains over time.)  
A crack began to appear in the wood, but not at the seam where the two panels met—either the locks were heroically strong or the other Asgardians just thought that was too easy. Either way, they were almost in. There was a reason I tried to avoid paneling in my doorways, though, proven case and point. Those things were just too damn _easy_ to smash through.  
The crack widened to show a quarter each of two mildly recognizable faces as well as several helmets and some weapon edges. Something I knew well peeked through the gap and I dove to the floor, just in time. (Like I said, no one in Asgard likes me very much.) An arrow streaked through the air just through where my head had been and skewered the second of my two most immediate captors in the forehead.  
I figured no one else would be coming to any more immediate form of aid, so I rolled to my side and wriggled back into a sitting position to work on freeing the chain from my floor and/or (preferably not the _or_ of only the first option) my neck from the chain.  
People call me a trickster, but I’m hardly that without my magic. I have no tricks when I it. Elves and Asgardians fought around me as I struggled to loosen the chain. With magic it would have been a snap of the fingers to free me, before I stood, wiped the blood away with a wave of my hand, and a single step to return me to the palace halls. Now I was stuck in bloody clothes, entirely dependent on Odin and company, while I struggled to wedge my fingers through the chain links and free myself.  
There was a sword flash and I gasped throwing one arm up to protect my head, but it clanged as it smashed against and then sliced through the metal. I nodded to my savior, but he had already turned away to meet blows with the next elf, surprisingly a woman, her golden hair tied back in a multitude of snaking braids.  
I twisted and turned my wrists until they slid free of the chains. After much practice, to this day I’m still not entirely certain how I managed to pull it off. Regardless of _how_ , they did come off, falling to the floor with a jingling clank. That left both hands free to scramble at the ones around my neck.  
I choked again as someone grabbed me from behind, lifting me dangerously to my feet by the throat. My fingers scrambled at my neck, but it was over as quickly as it had started. I gulped, trying not to gag on the blood that went down. The chain came off in a single tug from my rescuer.  
“Hello, Odin. Long time no see, hm?”  
“Save it, Loki.”  
“I’m not the one who was two hours late to my rescue.”  
“You shouldn’t have taken such a long time to be caught, then! It took far longer than predicted for them to regain their sense of security. You’re much too _tricky_ , Loki.”  
“Well, then. I _do_ apologize for my very basest of natures, brother. I pray that you may someday forgive me.”  
“Shut up and keep out of my way.” I’m not sure how he did it, but he saw an elf with a rather large blade coming towards him even from the side that had no eye. I flinched at the blood splatter and for once kept my tongue.  
“Yes, sir.”  
Standing against the wall had never looked neither so safe nor so appealing in my life. The chaos reminded me a bit of a party I had once dared to crash. The chaos that had ensued then had been a mite more appealing than what I witnessed then, but the results had not been the most pleasant. I hope that these would not end so bloody or painful for me.  
Although, I mused as I wiped up my face with a scrap of cloth I found on the floor, cleanly severed from the hem of another’s cape, I already had a head start on the bloody portion of the matter.


End file.
